


Teaching a Dinosaur How to Drive (or Fly)

by austenfan1990



Category: Babylon (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Evolving Tags, F/M, Humour, Love/Hate, Pilots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-12 05:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5655010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austenfan1990/pseuds/austenfan1990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss America and a Dinosaur as pilots in a charter airline...pretty much what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for some time now (whether it's awful or not, we'll have to wait and see, though my money's on the first option): basically this is the culmination of listening to/watching too much _Cabin Pressure_ and _Babylon_ , and wondering what would happen if we had Liz and Finn in a flight deck rather than a PR department. 
> 
> I have hopes for this to be a story with an actual plot, but if not, it may well just turn out as a series of one shots. I'm not quite sure yet. 
> 
> Profuse apologies in advance for mangling the characters of Liz and Finn, and everybody else, in my paltry attempt at writing _Babylon_ fanfiction.

Finn Kirkwood demolishes his second pack of nicotine gum as he glares – not stares – out of the window of the portacabin. He is well aware that he is probably not supposed to go overload with the gum because hey, there _was_ a reason he opted to take gum over cigarettes. He tosses the empty pack into the bin. The weather outside is foul, foggy and wet, and it matches his current mood.

The digital clock on the wall reads 09.37. His new captain is seven minutes late.

Richard Miller, CEO of MetAir, is also standing and staring out of the window – a different window on the opposite side of the cabin – but unlike Finn, his mood is sanguine, even cheery. Had Finn been even two minutes late on his first day at MetAir, he’s certain that Richard would not be so welcoming. Probably threaten to give him the sack before he even started.

But then again, Finn isn’t feeling particularly generous towards anyone today or in fact, any day. Not after he’d been passed over for promotion from First Officer to Captain, a promotion he had been almost certain he would get after five years in service. It had been no secret that Richard was on the lookout for another captain after Dennis Trafford had retired, and Finn had accordingly approached his boss about his chances.

He approached, he spoke, but he hadn’t conquered. Richard’s reply was firm: ‘No exceptions, Finn. If you want a crack at promotion, you’ve got to apply like the rest of them.’

Finn had briefly wanted to ask who the ‘rest of them’ might be but, and unusually for him, didn’t press the matter further. He got his answer anyway later on when stopping by Richard’s office to file his application. A whole stack of CVs lay in a pile on his desk, and right at the top (he _should_ have known by then, obvious foreshadowing and all) was one which had evidently caught Richard’s attention. Or at least, thought Finn cynically, the photograph had.

Elizabeth Garvey. American. Blonde, blue-eyed with an irritatingly confident smile, and as far as he could tell, _younger_ than him by at least half a decade. Had she been older than Finn, a woman in perhaps early to mid-middle age, rather severe-looking with years of experience behind her, he probably would have taken it better.

Setting eyes on her two-dimensional doppelganger, a burst of intense but unknown emotion (anger, fear, annoyance?) had spiked through him, and Finn had quickly dumped his application on top of hers.

Richard had acknowledged it with a quick, short nod and once Finn had left, just as quickly put it aside. He never had a chance.

That wasn’t to say Finn was unqualified. Everyone agreed that he was one of the best pilots in the airline and his technical knowledge was unmatched. He knew planes like the back of his hand, far better than the captains. There was a common suspicion that he had the flight manual memorised, or at least, had it as his designated piece of bedtime reading. Or porn (no one was entirely sure that it was possible to get off on flight manuals but if anyone could, it would probably be Finn).

However, he had also in his five years built up a reputation for being difficult to work with, pissing off nearly everyone he came into contact with – even if he was almost always right. Right or not, an obnoxious passenger was bad enough; an obnoxious captain would send MetAir freefalling into litigation and bankruptcy.

Richard had been a captain himself before taking early retirement and setting up a charter airline, and so he knew better than anyone what sort of person was needed. Someone to set passengers at ease while speaking over the intercom, imbuing them with a sense of confidence. After many rounds of Skype interviews, Miss Garvey had made the strongest impression. In terms of experience, she didn’t have as much as the others, but what she lacked in that respect, she wholly made up for in terms of enthusiasm, strength of character, and what impressed Richard most, her transparency. Having stated on her application that she had failed to get her pilot license the twice, he had pressed her on the subject. He had expected her to switch topics, or at the very least, start hedging. She had done neither, and instead spoke candidly about the circumstances in which she had failed her tests without any hint of embarrassment.

To Richard, it was unbelievably refreshing. None of the sob-story bullshit which he had heard time and time again. No excuses, just the simple bloody truth. A day later, she received Richard’s email confirming her employment, along with his congratulations.

For a pilot, Finn is extraordinarily good at finding things out, because as he stands there at the window, chomping on his gum, he knows nearly all of this, or at least as much as Richard had related to his business partner, Charles Inglis. In a way, Finn senses this is deliberate, that his boss _wanted_ him to know how he didn’t get the job. For a man who seemingly values transparency, Finn finds it ironic that Richard is a piss-poor example of it, judging by the number of extramarital affairs the man is rumoured to have had – the supposed cause of his two divorces.

It’s raining now and it appears to be falling horizontally. Finn sees a black umbrella making its way across the airfield, and stops chewing. Beneath it is the unmistakable figure of a woman, wrapped in a trench coat. Knowing that she has to pass beneath his window in order to reach the door, he intentionally intensifies his scowl. She doesn’t even look up and Finn’s purpose is defeated.

The door opens, the umbrella and trench coat are put aside and removed, and MetAir’s new captain is standing before them. Finn notices that she’s already in her uniform – Richard’s doing no doubt – and pointedly averts his gaze from the four stripes on her arm.

She apologises for being late. One glance at the enraptured expression on Richard’s face and it’s clear that had she committed murder, she would have quite as easily got away with it. Richard starts addressing her as ‘Elizabeth’ until she politely puts a stop to it.

‘It’s just that only my parents call me that,’ she explains. ‘Usually when they’re angry.’

‘And judging by how quick you were to correct us, I assume that happened quite often,’ says Finn, and much louder than he intended. He’s standing a little apart from them and so hasn’t been noticed…until now. Her blue gaze falls upon him. She doesn’t miss a beat, and Finn distinctly feels the hairs on the back of his neck standing slightly on end.

‘You must be Finn,’ she says with a winning smile, extending her hand. ‘Call me Liz.’


	2. Chapter 2

Liz feels at her best when she’s up in the skies, but only when she’s flying the plane herself. She’s a pilot who likes to fly but doesn’t care for being flown, and she supposes it’s an apt analogy of her life so far.

When she mentions her line of work, more often than not, she’s mistaken for a flight attendant (her going ‘I’m in aviation’ leads to ‘Oh, that’s nice, then you must be used to getting drinks’ and other cringe-worthy pickup lines from hell) and she never tires of the kick she gets when men realise, with varying degrees of surprise, that she’s a pilot. Once this has been established, the majority of them disappear into the background – possibly into the wallpaper, if they have any shred of dignity left. The more determined of them try to chat her up, and the bolder ones take it a step further by feigning an interest in planes. It all ends the same way. None of them are able to get close, because by this point, she’s off the radar and in Holy Communion with the Sky Gods where no mere mortal can reach her.

But there was a time, a few years back, when mere mortals had higher chances of getting through. One got as far as into her bed, and for a while, her heart. Or so she had thought. There had been a considerable age gap between Granger and her, but that wasn’t a surprise since he was already a captain by the time she met him.

Things had been good for a while. During that time, Liz passed her test on the third try and not long after, she had received her first job offer (First Officer in a small but respectable airline). With a job came an income, along with some breathing space to think about the career ahead of her which she’d been unable to do before. Her parents had been supportive about her choice of profession. But after failing her first two tests, she had felt the tension in the air whenever she came home to stay with them over Christmas, and one of her relatives about quizzed her (well-meant but badly-timed) about her life in general. Liz was used to this: plastering a fake smile on her face as she endured this seasonal ordeal (almost a tradition in itself, really) while praying internally that she wouldn’t blurt out that everything was going to pieces.

Granger had come with her the Christmas after she’d got her license, and for the first time, she had replaced the fake smile with a genuine one. She hardly batted an eyelid when someone asked whether the two of them were hooking up for good. Wherever Granger was, she herself was on cloud nine, and having booked an extended stay, she certainly wasn’t intending to vacate it any time soon.

She thinks now that she really should have paid more attention. Because if she had, she would have seen the signs from a mile off.

Then again, hindsight is always 20/20, and unlike spectacles, you can’t slip them on when your vision is going whack. Life simply doesn’t work that way.

* * *

London isn’t too bad, she thinks. She knows absolutely no one, but she doesn’t find herself caving in to loneliness. Coming into work every morning is itself invigorating: MetAir is fully booked for the next half year and therefore there is no lack of places to go, of passengers to carry, and cargo to transport. It’s a nice feeling, especially when you’re a woman in your early thirties, and a captain to boot in a male-dominated profession.

What she _does_ lack is a co-operative first officer. Richard had warned her long in advance about Finn – during her Skype interview, in fact – and so she had been prepared for his opening jibes on her first day. His startled look alone when she extended her hand was enough to keep her warm for most of that morning, having been soaked through in spite of her coat and umbrella (because evidently English rain operates on a different realm of physics).

What she hadn’t prepared for was the amount of time she spends arguing with Finn, and she suspects that she spends as much time flying as she does shouting at him. He’s not incompetent, far from it. He’s just…well, he’s just _Finn_.

Arguments appear to flare up over everything which comes their way. She finds his constant gum-chewing distasteful, not to mention unprofessional. He doesn’t bother hiding his disdain at her policy of personally greeting passengers boarding the plane. In fact, he doesn’t even bother joining her and instead fumes away in the cockpit.

‘Don’t you dare set fire to the controls while you’re over there!’ Liz had shouted after him, the first time he had stormed off. She had then turned around and taken in the slightly panicked expressions of some of the passengers. She realised belatedly that it hadn’t been the best choice of words on an aeroplane.

The fifth time she’s done this (greeting the passengers, not shouting about setting fire to the controls), he’s got his claws out and ready for her when she returns to the flight deck.

‘Has it even occurred to you while you’re out there painting rainbows and riding unicorns, there might be some nutter who might want to incapacitate you and hijack the plane?’

She loudly slams the flight deck door behind her in response.

‘You might as well leave it open throughout the flight,’ says Finn, sarcasm dripping from his voice. ‘Since you’ve clearly established you don’t give a shit about aviation safety.’

‘And clearly you don’t give one about making a good impression.’

‘I’m not here to make good impressions. I’m here to fly the fucking plane.’

‘Look,’ she says hotly, ‘would it _kill_ you to be civil, at least?’

‘To you, or the passengers?’ This takes her slightly aback, mostly because he’s suddenly adopted an even, polite tone. She’s not entirely sure whether she prefers him like this, or the usual mouthy, expletive-filled tirades he’s so fond of firing off. He leans in threateningly so that his face is mere inches from hers. She doesn’t flinch or move away.

‘Because I have to tell you that my capacity for being civil to anyone currently stands at a big fucking zero.’

They stare each other down in this fashion for above a minute, their standoff only broken when ATC gives them clearance for take-off.

‘Well, you’re here to fly the plane, Finn,’ says Liz tonelessly. Oh, he’d definitely like that, she thinks, while also chastising herself for undermining her own authority. What a fantastic captain she’s turning out to be.

Curiously however, he still doesn’t budge.

‘So go and do that, and get the fuck out of my face,’ she adds. That does the trick.

‘Gladly,’ he replies.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s just not Liz’s day. There’s a forty-eight hour Tube strike going on but having learned of this in advance, she had arranged for a cab to pick her up and take her to the airfield. Everything would have gone according to plan if it wasn’t for this horrendous traffic jam bringing her part of London to a standstill.

‘You picked a poor day, love,’ says the cabbie sympathetically, after they’ve been stuck in the same spot for nearly twenty minutes. He indicates a sign that’s been put up on the nearby pavement. ‘Traffic diversion. I can take another route but chances are, so will everyone else.’

‘Any idea how long it’ll take to get us out of here?’

‘I wish I could say. Half an hour tops, hopefully.’ His words are matched with an equally hopeful expression on his face. ‘But I’m not sure.’

Liz can’t spare another half hour; she’s certain she’s already running late as it is. After a brief discussion, they agree to drop her off at a bus stop where she can take a replacement bus. Its route will be winding but should circumvent the worst traffic. Hurriedly paying her fare, she gets out, heels clattering upon the tarmac as she strides towards the bus stop. To her relief, her bus is already there. Her relief doesn’t last long.

Strangely, there’s a crowd, not a queue, forming around the bus. She quickly learns why: they’ve all been let off due to problems with the engine. Another bus is on its way but won’t be expected till another fifteen minutes at the very least.

‘Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me,’ she groans to herself. Had she known this, she should have stayed in the cab. It’s too late though, she thinks, and pulls out her phone to…what was she planning to do, exactly? Call another cab? As if on cue, it starts ringing and she nearly drops it in surprise. She looks at the caller display. The number is unknown to her but hell, she might as well answer it.

‘Hello?’

‘Um, yeah, hi,’ says a youngish male voice from the other end. Whoever he is, he’s giving the impression that he hadn’t expected – perhaps hadn’t even wanted – anyone to pick up. ‘Is this Captain Garvey?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry, yeah, of course it is,’ the man stammers apologetically. He starts rambling to himself and Liz, already on edge, starts to lose patience. She’s about to rudely tell him to shove off when she hears: ‘Of course, why else would Finn be giving me this number –’

‘Hold on,’ cuts in Liz. ‘How do you know Finn, um…’ She pauses. ‘Sorry, I still don’t know who you are.’

‘Er, I’m Tom. Tom Oliver. I’m a steward at MetAir.’

‘I don’t think I’ve seen you on any of my flights.’

‘Oh, yeah. It’s because I’m on the other plane. You know, the one flown by Captain Franklin?’

Sharon Franklin, the other female pilot at MetAir, Liz remembers. Apart from an introductory handshake during her first week, Liz hasn’t had the chance to talk with her. Mostly because when one of them was flying out, the other was flying in. But she should try and talk to her one day, she supposes. One day.

Liz’s attention returns to Tom. ‘Yes, I know Sharon. By sight, anyway.’

‘Right, okay,’ replies Tom, sounding at a loss. He clears his throat awkwardly. ‘Anyway, back to why I was calling you in the first place. Finn was, well…Finn’s wondering whether you’d be turning up to work this morning.’

‘Finn said that?’ asks Liz suspiciously.

‘Erm, well, not in so many words. Truthfully, it was more of a swearfest than anything else. Oh, cripes…’

There’s a yelp from the other end, and Liz has to pull her phone away from her ear when a loud crash reverberates through the earpiece. She briefly wonders whether Finn has added “murdering nervous, put-upon stewards” to his list of crimes. Soon she hears some rustling and a clear, distinct ‘Tom, just fuck off, will you?’ She grimaces on the unseen Tom’s behalf.

More rustling, and then: ‘Where the fuck are you?’ Finn says loudly, without preamble.

‘Good morning to you, too,’ she replies frigidly, willing every fibre of her being to convey her infinite displeasure of hearing his voice this early in the morning. It doesn’t appear to work because Finn simply ploughs on.

‘Do you have any idea how close we are to receiving a Miller bollocking if you don’t get yourself here within the next twenty minutes?’

There’s yet another piece of British slang she still hasn’t got used to yet, and it takes a few seconds for her to comprehend what (she thinks) Finn means.

‘If it’s any comfort, I’m a woman so I probably won’t feel the pain as much as you will,’ she ventures.

There is a slightly stunned silence. ‘Jesus, you seriously haven’t a clue about what I’ve just said, have you?’ says Finn. ‘How about this then, for clarity’s sake: we are going to get _slaughtered_. Literally hung, drawn and quartered if you do not turn up _now_.’

‘Well, I would _like_ to but I’m presently dealing with the chaos that your bullshit Transport for London system has created. I mean, what is the point of providing replacement buses when they don’t actually work?’

Perhaps she’s feeling a little of Tom’s influence and is very nearly ready to have a ramble of her own, but is interrupted by a scathing Finn.

‘Welcome to London, Liz. Did you not read your copy of _Lonely Planet_ on your way here? Or were you too busy looking at the kitsch snapshots plastered every two pages? Were you actually expecting us to wheel out the Queen’s State Coach to take you to the airfield and back in times like these?’

‘From the moment we started this conversation, I knew that you had exactly the kind of sympathetic ear I needed.’

‘This isn’t a conversation, it’s –’ he starts.

‘You know what, Finn? You’re right,’ replies Liz shortly, her temper flaring, and she feels as if she will physically assault someone if she listens to any more of his shit. ‘This isn’t a conversation; it’s a complete waste of time.’ With that, she hangs up on him.

She looks up from her phone and sees the other bus coming into view, much earlier than expected. Just as she boards the bus, her phone starts ringing again. To her amazement, it’s Finn (this time on his mobile…why the hell does she have his number saved, anyway?), and she starts to wonder whether the guy was raised in a cave, or is on a mad quest to fulfil his daily requirement of how to be an asshole.

She doesn’t bother answering but once she’s settled on the bus, and after some careful consideration, sends a text instead.

_You complete and utter wanker. (See, I’m not entirely clueless about these things)_

She puts her phone away.

* * *

Liz arrives at the airfield, nerves frayed, and wondering whether this will spell the end of her time here, but is unexpectedly met by Richard in front of the portacabin. She immediately fears the worst. Instead, he informs her that their VIP passenger is also running late and fortunately for her, their flight charter can still go ahead.

‘Count yourself lucky, Liz,’ says Richard. ‘This time.’

‘Of course,’ says Liz, nodding her head emphatically. ‘I promise that it won’t happen again.’

‘I hope so.’ Richard pauses, looks at her carefully, and takes a step forward. ‘You know, I was almost tempted to let Finn fly the plane alone if our VIP came on time.’ Then he adds with a wry smile, ‘But then we would have lost our charter for sure!’

They both laugh.

‘Well, Liz,’ he says, once they’ve stopped. ‘Don’t want to keep you, you’ve been delayed enough as it is.’ His phone starts ringing. ‘That’s probably our passenger. I’ll go and bring him round to the plane in ten, eh?’

She nods again…and Richard unexpectedly leans and pecks her lightly on the cheek before walking quickly away. She watches him go in amazement and is only brought crashing down to earth when her own phone buzzes insistently. She whips it out and sees a text from Finn.

_Fuck you._

She scoffs and makes her way to the plane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't expected to post, or indeed, _write_ another chapter within 36 hours of posting the previous one (believe me, it's a new record for me) but I guess this new chapter didn't want to be kept waiting. 
> 
> And a warm thank you to all who've read, commented, and left kudos on the story so far (it really does look like it'll be a story and not a series of one shots, after all). :)


	4. Chapter 4

They’re having some technical issues with the engines. As a result, Liz and Finn are forced to extend their stopover in St Petersburg after dropping off their chartered cargo. Having explained and cleared the situation with Richard over the phone, Liz can’t help noticing that Finn is more irritable than usual. Her own mood isn’t by any means great, but at least she doesn’t look like she’s going to commit murder. She’s grateful that MetAir’s budget covers separate accommodation for pilots: she cannot even begin to imagine the carnage that would come about if she found herself stuck in an enclosed space with him for any protracted length of time.

Liz belatedly realises that she already does. They’re flying the same fucking plane, after all. Well, _outside_ of flight hours, anyway, she corrects herself.

They check into their hotel, using different desks as per usual. Liz finishes later than he does but they end up waiting for the same lift in the empty lobby. Finn wordlessly stands aside to let her enter first. Liz barely acknowledges the gesture, jabs her floor number on the keypad with more force than necessary, and then unconsciously moves to let him do the same. He raises his hand and just as quickly – along with some momentary confusion – lowers it. It takes some time to comprehend what’s going on. But it’s not so difficult to decipher his horrified expression and she thinks it might well be a reflection of her own.

Liz is the first to turn away but the mirrored walls of the lift aren’t helping since she can still see his face even when she’s not looking at him. Seconds, they might as well be minutes, pass at an agonising pace. The lift announces their arrival with a gratingly cheerful _ding_ and they scramble out, high on awkwardness, low on gracefulness.

She looks at the sign indicating which direction she has to go and she immediately darts to the corridor on the left, her footsteps urgent and muffled on the carpeted floor.

Liz reaches her door and turns around, expecting to see Finn right behind her. She doesn’t.

* * *

‘You’ve got over a hundred rooms in this hotel. What do you mean that there isn’t another one available?’

Finn is back in the lobby. Once he saw Liz going in the direction of his room (her room?), he had made up his mind. He had feared that the hotel had given them the _same room_ but he hadn’t wanted to find out first-hand. He discovers that they didn’t but it’s just as bad: they’re right next to each other. The receptionist tells him that there’s an interconnecting door between them with a revoltingly suggestive twinkle in his eye.

Finn swears at him in English, pauses, and then in above-average Russian. The receptionist is replaced by the manager who profusely apologises but again emphasises that they’re fully booked up this week.

He knows that he could just check-out and pay for a room in another hotel out of his own pocket – he could easily afford it – but he thinks doing that would be bloody ridiculous, if the situation wasn’t reaching levels of borderline farce already. Just to avoid Liz? Please.

Finn resigns himself to his fate and returns upstairs, expecting to see Liz rushing out of nowhere, possibly from behind a fire extinguisher or a decorative plant, accusing him of spying on her. He doesn’t.

* * *

‘Are you spying on me? Are you following me?’ demands Liz, without preamble, after marching up to his table.

It took a bit longer than expected but here it is. After the room fiasco, Finn had thought that as long as he took extra precautions, they would avoid bumping into each other before heading to the airport tomorrow evening. This had spectacularly failed when they ended up leaving their rooms at the same time, taking the same lift – thankfully this time with a family of three – and then finding themselves in the same restaurant an hour later. Finn is familiar with the place, having flown to the city numerous times, but he’s forgotten that it features quite prominently on the 'Top 5 Restaurants' list in any given guidebook and that Liz has probably read about it, hence her presence here.

Finn doesn’t look up from his menu. ‘FYI, I’m not. Frankly, I’m just as dismayed as you are.’

‘St Petersburg has a population of over 5 million people, Finn. Care to explain how the fuck the two of us, non-locals, mind you, ended up here oh-so-conveniently?’

‘I think a high-octane variant of Murphy’s Law on meth might cover things nicely. What the hell are you doing?’ asks Finn as Liz sinks into the chair opposite him.

‘Taking a seat,’ says Liz airily.

‘Go fucking take a seat elsewhere,’ growls Finn. ‘Preferably strapped to a deckchair at the bottom of a hotel swimming pool.’

‘It’s February.’

‘Oh, did I not mention it’s supposed to be frozen?’

The corners of Liz’s mouth curl a little. He can’t tell whether that’s good or bad. ‘Yeah, you’d know better than anyone about that. Tell you what, Finn, come summer I’ll forgo the air-conditioning and shove you into the cabin instead. We’ll save loads on fuel.’

‘Forced expulsion of a co-pilot is a CAA offence,’ he shoots back. ‘Not to mention illegal.’

‘So is strapping someone to a deckchair and dumping them into a frozen body of water.’

Their voices progressively become louder and finally a waiter comes over, plonking a candle between them, evidently as a means to diffuse the situation.

‘What the fuck is this?’ they pronounce at the same time. The waiter casts his eyes around by way of explanation and both Liz and Finn follow his gaze. The place is full of couples, each occupying a table of their own and displaying varying levels of synchronised affection. Finn balks at the sight while Liz feels a wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm her. Perhaps sensing that this particular ‘couple’ aren’t quite what they seem, the waiter makes himself scarce.

Chairs are hastily scraped backwards – again in perfect, terrible sync. They halt, silently daring each other with their eyes to make the first move.

‘You should go,’ says Finn at length.

‘Charming date you are.’

‘I’m not your date, Liz,’ snaps Finn. ‘I’m your co-pilot.’

‘ _My_ co-pilot?’ she queries, eyebrow raised.

He freezes. ‘ _A_ co-pilot. Second-in-command. First Officer… need I go on?’

‘It’s perfectly clear, thanks. You’re what Rudolph is to Santa, what Robin is to Batman.’

‘Or the PM to the Queen,’ he cuts in, angrily.

‘ _Please_ ,’ she scoffs. ‘Wrong dynasty, Finn. You’re the Privy Council in the time of the Virgin Queen while I rail at you for executing Mary of Scots, and later throw you in the Tower for good measure.’

‘There is no chance in _hell_ that you’re a virgin…or a queen,’ counters Finn, after a pregnant pause.

‘Pretty much the same odds of you being the Privy Council or PM, so why don’t you just fuck off?’

He does so in a huff. Liz expects him to leave the restaurant but instead, he retreats to her own recently vacated table. He makes a point of sitting with his back to her. It’s rude and typical Finn, but for once she regards it as weirdly considerate of him _not_ to spend the remainder of the evening glaring or making unpleasant faces at her.

They each have their solitary dinners and by the time Liz returns from the ladies, Finn has already left. As she walks down the riverfront on her way back to the hotel, she recalls the expression on his face just before he stormed off to her table. It had been mildly impressed with a hint of annoyance. It stays with her for some time.


	5. Chapter 5

MetAir is doing well, but that doesn’t stop Richard from paying attention to the fact that other charter firms are being taken over by a big conglomerate. To tell the truth, he’s known of this for a while, having been approached several times himself before to sell the company. He had refused.

They’ve got a steady stream of clients, most of them loyal and some have even become personal friends, but Richard wants to talk strategy with his crew, which will also give him the chance to allay any possible fears of being taken over. He calls a meeting during one of their rest days, and for the first time since arriving in London, Liz meets Charles Inglis, who is invited – or has invited himself, she isn’t sure which – to their discussion. One of the first things she notices is that he’s awfully chummy with Finn and that doesn’t boost her impression of him.

Meanwhile, Tom is flitting about in the background, his job being apparently the same on the ground as it is in the air: making coffee. He is also staying as far away as possible from Finn. His avoidance, however, is counterproductive as this merely makes Finn more tetchy, and Liz makes a mental note of how caffeine – or the lack of it – has an effect on his mood. In the end, Finn does the last thing Tom wants: he stands in front of him and loudly demands coffee.

Liz physically places herself between Tom and Finn, ostensibly to get some for herself, but really in an effort to save Tom. Finn throws her an extremely unpleasant look, flips her off, and returns to his seat next to Inglis.

‘Oh, thank God,’ breathes Tom, sagging with visible relief. ‘For one awful moment, I thought he was going to stab me in the eye with a complimentary stirrer.’

‘You know, I never did thank you for calling me the day of the Tube strike,’ Liz begins, then realises that she’s got nothing else to say. ‘So...thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ winces Tom, looking and sounding like he literally means it, as if fearing the memory would manifest itself and chase him round the portacabin.

* * *

‘So, how are you dealing with being second-in-command?’ asks Inglis. His tone is level and deliberate, and Finn knows that he’s testing him.

‘Same way I usually deal with it. Caffeine, gum… shouting. Rage interspersed with professionalism.’ As if to add emphasis, Finn pops a piece of gum into his mouth and chews angrily.

‘From what I hear, professionalism is the last thing your captain thinks you’re displaying.’ Finn scoffs. ‘And that wasn’t how you dealt with Trafford,’ adds Inglis.

‘Dennis was different,’ replies Finn shortly. ‘At least, he wasn’t –’

‘A woman? Younger than you? American?’ He knows all of Finn’s grievances (and prejudices) and doesn’t hold back from pushing all of his buttons when he can. It’s almost like prodding a baby Tyrannosaurus behind the safety of a reinforced steel cage. The advantage of a Tyrannosaurus – fully-grown or otherwise – is that their arms have a very small reach.

Finn grits his teeth. ‘Sleeping around with the boss. Jesus, Charles.’

Inglis’ eyebrow quirks a little but his face remains impassive.

‘Hmm’ is all he offers in response.  

It’s maddeningly uninformative but then again, Finn is used to him keeping his cards very close to his chest.

After a few moments, Inglis lowers his voice and glances over at Liz who is now speaking to Sharon. ‘My gut instinct is that she’s ambitious, driven to be sure, but getting into bed with Richard…?’

‘When did anyone _not_ get into bed with him?’ says Finn. He fixes him with a piercing look. ‘And what makes you so sure?’

Inglis indicates the ring on his left hand. ‘This does.’

‘Didn’t know marriage made you fucking clairvoyant.’

‘It doesn’t, but it teaches you some things. You should try it some time.’

Finn makes a face. ‘Fuck no.’

‘Anyway, what’s your proof?’

For the first time in their conversation, Finn doesn’t appear particularly sure of himself. He says quietly, almost unwillingly, ‘A kiss on the cheek. Saw them outside the portacabin.’

‘That’s like saying someone’s an alcoholic because they’re in a bloody pub,’ replies Inglis, distinctly unimpressed. ‘Besides, Richard does that to everyone.’ It’s interesting that he already knows who instigated it.

Finn takes a sip of his coffee. Bitterness is what he tastes and feels, along with a vague sense of confusion. ‘Everyone. Right.’

* * *

At the end of the day, Liz comes up with the idea of producing a video to help boost MetAir’s visibility which will also coincide with the firm’s upcoming seventh anniversary. It will include short interviews with the founders, Richard and Inglis, along with the pilots and the cabin crew. Day-to-day routines will be filmed to add flavour and she’s also keen to include the contributions of the ground crew. To Liz’s surprise, Finn is quiet throughout the entirety of her pitch. She had expected heckling at the very least.

Richard gives it the green light and when the meeting adjourns, takes Inglis to his office to discuss funding.

With it nearly being six, Liz heads out of the portacabin and walks across the airfield. Her mind turns to changing out of her uniform and heading back home, wondering whether she should actually bother cooking something (it’s such a hassle if you’re only cooking for yourself) or get some takeaway (her default option). That is, until Finn falls into step beside her and she instinctively braces herself for a fight.

‘Great pitch,’ he says conversationally, as if he's commenting on the weather. ‘Although I _was_ expecting you to whip out a pile of storyboards from under your seat, along with a 200-page script approved by George “You-can-type-this-shit-but-you-sure-as-hell-can’t-say-it” Lucas.’

‘Fuck off, Finn. You’re only jealous that I came up with the idea first.’

‘Jealousy is the last thing on my mind right now.’ Finn’s brain lingers on this thought for fraction of a second before moving on. ‘You just can’t be content with simply flying the fucking plane, can you? You have to go the whole hog.’

‘Richard appears to like my idea.’

‘Sometimes even Richard doesn’t know what’s best for the company.’

Liz gapes at him. ‘I can’t believe you just said that. Even for your shitty scraping-the-barrel standards. Are you saying that you can run MetAir better than him? Wanna take over as CEO next, Finn?’

He backtracks a little. ‘I never said that. Stop putting words into my mouth, Liz.’

‘I could say the same to you!’ she fires back, angrily.

‘I’m just saying that you don’t know half of what’s going on here. Especially regarding finances.’

‘Yeah? Well, that’s maybe because I spend most of my time here _flying the fucking plane_ ,’ says Liz through gritted teeth. They’ve now reached the hangar which also serves as changing rooms for the crew. She stops to face him, raising herself to her full height and he does the same. ‘Not snooping around like an overgrown bat and living out a sad little fantasy of being MI6.’

‘Actually more like GCHQ.’

Liz rolls her eyes. ‘Whatever.’

‘All you want to be is Captain Liz Garvey, poster girl of MetAir… Rosie the Riveter, eat your heart out.’

‘You know _nothing_ of what I want,’ says Liz, lowly, dangerously, and for a moment, she swears that even Finn is slightly taken aback. ‘If it’s entirely escaped that thick skull of yours, I want MetAir to succeed as much as everyone else does. And you know what, if I do end up being symbolising this campaign – which is _not_ my intention – so be it.’ Finn scoffs at this. ‘It’s better than having _you_ on the tin, about as reassuring as a placard reading “We’re all about to fucking die” while the whole world verges on the apocalypse.’

She pushes past him, her shoulder brushing heavily against his, and storms into the ladies’ changing room. Unconsciously, Finn takes a step forward, as if to follow her. She slams the door in his face.

* * *

‘Right, so we’re both agreed that Liz’s plan is a good idea,’ says Richard, looking at his notes and then glancing across at Inglis who is seated opposite him. ‘Now we only have let Grant know of this little venture of ours.’

‘Just remind me – who exactly is running this airline? Him or us?’ says Inglis coolly.

‘He’s our patron, Charlie. We have to let him have his say, even if it’s a load of shite, most of the time.’

‘Hmm. It might be, but it does end up getting everywhere in the end. No matter what we do. Frankly, I’m surprised he didn’t turn up at the meeting today.’

Richard scoffs. ‘I doubt we have a room big enough to fit both his ego and the entirety of MetAir. Still, he’s –’ His mobile rings, he takes one look at the screen and says, ‘Well, speak of the devil.’ He answers the call, putting him on speakerphone.

‘Grant.’

‘Richard.’

Both of their voices are cool and polite, but each of them know it’s a façade. There is a short silence and Richard is the first to break it.

‘Good that you called, Grant. We were just talking about you.’

Delgado lets out a humourless chuckle. ‘Never a good sign.’

Nevertheless, he hears Richard out about the prospective video and campaign. When he’s finished, Delgado sighs and mutters in mild exasperation, ‘I see you didn’t get my memo about _cutting_ costs.’

‘Sorry, I might have to clarify that. For Charlie’s sake,’ says Richard, catching Inglis’ eye. ‘You didn’t ask me to cut costs, you asked me to cut salaries. Specifically those of my pilots.’

‘I don’t see a difference between the two.’

‘You might not, but my pilots sure as hell can. They do an extremely difficult job under exceptional circumstances. Reducing their salaries is impossible.’

‘We wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t paid Captain Garvey that much.’

‘She’s the best decision I ever made,’ replies Richard emphatically. ‘Have you seen our quarterly reports, Grant? Turnovers have doubled since she came aboard.’

‘And so have our overheads,’ sniffs Delgado. There’s a brief pause before he continues, ‘Look, I’m all for this video if you want it made. But unless it gets you, say six times the amount of charters we’re getting now, it’s not going to help us in the long run. We can only keep our heads above water for so long.’

‘So much for not taking the doom and gloom approach,’ mutters Inglis, under his breath.

‘Richard, can I ask you to look at the possibility of selling MetAir?’

‘I already have. Multiple times.’

‘It’ll make a tidy profit, you know. The earlier you do it, the easier it will be for all of us. And if bad becomes worse, you won’t even need to cut salaries, other people will do it for you.’

Richard wonders for the umpteenth time how on earth they’ve managed to remain on relatively good terms with Delgado this long. He glances over at Inglis and by the disbelieving look on his face, it appears he’s been thinking the same thing.

‘Tell you what,’ continues Delgado, ‘why don’t I send you some pilots who've recently gone over?’

‘Right. From that other charter firm you pumped money into as well? Around the same time you invested in MetAir?’

'Now, you're still not sore about that, are you? Everyone knows a healthy dose of competition can be a good thing. Besides, they might give you some insight into the advantages of selling out. Plus they can reassure your own guys while they’re there. You know, pilot-to-pilot, man-to-man…or rather man-to-woman in Garvey’s case.’

‘Looks awfully like a touch of lobbying to me, Grant.’

‘If it is, you’ll be glad to know I’m sending over the reconnaissance team, not the advance guard.’

‘That’s sporting of you.’ Richard stares intently at his phone, as if he’s looking Delgado straight in the eye. ‘You’re not going to let this thing go until I agree to this, right?’

‘Correct.’

‘And if I still don’t change my mind after we have your guys over?’

‘Then I’ll forever hold my peace.’

At this, Richard turns to Inglis and says, ‘Charlie?’

‘Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt having a few pilots over.’ Inglis says it in a tone so that the message is crystal clear, at least to Richard who can’t hold back a small grin: _Our pilots can hold their own against anything Grant sends over. Especially Finn._

After a lengthy discussion, a date is set and Delgado promises to let them know the names of the pilots as soon as he has them.


End file.
